


Knifepoint

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blood Kink, M/M, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 20:31:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2520839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The knife at Enjolras's neck feels oddly comfortable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knifepoint

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr's Ferrejolras Week 2014.

The knife at Enjolras's neck feels oddly comfortable. The steel is cold on his skin, scraping under his jaw and singing out a sharp rasp as it traverses from ear to chin. It is queer, but he finds the sensation a little bit pleasing. He lets out a sigh of satisfaction. 

And the knife immediately pulls away.

"Don't move," the knife-bearer says. Enjolras opens his eyes and sees the beginning of a frown on Combeferre's face. "I might cut you."

"I doubt it," he says, and to further his point, he grabs the wrist holding the razor and brings it near his throbbing pulse. "You've always been good with a blade."

Combeferre chastises him wordlessly, but his grip on the razor steadies as he makes ready for another swipe. Combeferre places a hand on top of Enjolras's head and gives a light pull.

"Stay still," he commands. Enjolras obeys, but not before suppressing the smile that had begun to appear in his lips. Combeferre's hold reminds him of how his mother ruffled his hair. He frowned whenever she did so, but inwardly he thought it pleasing. The pleasure he feels now is entirely different.

"Did you know that Blondeau ordered me out of the lecture this morning?"

The razor hovers right above his jugular.

"So I heard."

Enjolras looks up at Combeferre, and he thinks he sees a look of pride pass his features. "Then you will know that he defended the Charter—saying that Louis XVIII only sought for peace in appeasing both the nobles and the people—and that in doing so, I grabbed the nearest copy of the document at hand and tore it in his presence."

A grin dominates Combeferre's mouth. Enjolras stares. 

"A bit dramatic, wouldn't you think?"

Enjolras grins back. "I learned from the best."

Enjolras does not close his eyes when the razor kisses his neck once more. He keeps his sight trained at Combeferre's expression, and when the blade swipes over the protrusion at his throat, he shivers.

— - —

A drop of soap-water trickles beneath Combeferre’s open shirt. The liquid should have been cool, but it singes his skin like a brand of iron. 

He did not plan this, but Enjolras is insistent.

The blade lands first on the space between his clavicles, edging downward, slowly and steadily, to the middle of his chest. Enjolras repeats the motion and gains confidence with each stroke. He wipes the blade clean on a rag, and his other hand presses Combeferre to the chair.

Combeferre’s back protests as the top rail bites into his skin. He does not move.

He wonders briefly, indulgently, on what would happen should Enjolras cut him by mistake. He imagines how the wound would sting—his blood dribbling out of his chest, fusing with the soap, Enjolras’s hands spreading the blood down his torso.

He has not thought of such things since his days at the dissection-rooms. 

He trembles.

"Are you cold?"

Combeferre shifts his gaze from Enjolras’s mouth to his eyes. He shakes his head, and for the third time that night, thinks what an odd sight they make—him reclined on the chair, Enjolras kneeling between his legs, one hand brandishing a murder weapon.

Enjolras pulls away and rests a palm on Combeferre's thigh. "I can stop, if you want."

The offer is half-hearted, but Combeferre frowns. He studies the lines on Enjolras’s face, and he sees the furrow in his brow and the pout in his lips. Resignation. Disappointment. 

His delight raises the hairs in his neck.

"Don't."


End file.
